I’ve never liked the term “vanilla”, used by some people in bdsm to refer to sex that doesn’t have bdsm in it, or the people who practice it. It seems a bit disparaging, and self-promoting in a way I find unattractive when other people do that to me.

For example, there was a thing in the Sydney gay community a few years back where heterosexuals were referred to as “breeders”. Sometimes it was a joke, and a good-natured one, but I’ve also heard and read it being used in terms of extreme dismissiveness and contempt.

I thought it was a shame when gays and lesbians were doing that, even if the het world has come up with its share of disparaging words for gays and lesbians, Hets have no moral high ground whatsoever.

I think it’s a shame when we refer to the majority of the human race as having “vanilla” sex, with its sub-text that they’re having boring sex, poor people, while we fetishists, ministers, bdsm guys and girls are exploring all the flavours and having psychedelically mind-blowing sex, compared to those poor, restricted vanillas.

But the term’s here now, and no one’s come up with a better one-word way of saying, “non-bdsm sex and the people who have it”.

When I’m talking about bdsm to people who aren’t into bdsm, I’ll explain that there’s this word, and I use it for its convenience. I don’t mean it pejoratively.

Still, I’d rather there was a better term.

I don’t know why but when I think, “sort of attractive but utterly not sexy”, this is the sort of image that comes to mind

I also wonder about my own sexual repertoire. Since I’ve embraced bdsm so strongly and so passionately, I’ve had occasional sexual encounters with women who aren’t into bdsm and don’t want to try

I’ve found that there’s enough lust to carry me through vanilla sex (erection, ejaculation and so on).

But there’s no question that I’m not as turned on, as excited, as I am when I’m subduing and taking some sweetly or fierily consenting submissive girl.

Have I become a sexual specialist, only really capable of enjoying bdsm-related sex? I think the answer is: not completely, but to a significant extent. I’ve fitted myself into a smaller box. That worries me a bit.

I sometimes feel a little awkward because I’m monosexual.

That’s a word that some bisexuals use to describe people who aren’t bisexual. Obviously, you can be homosexual and monosexual, and you can be heterosexual and monosexual, which last is the Venn circle that I’m in.

He’s the sort of go-to image for “hot man”, just at this moment. But I don’t fancy Chris Hemsworth, nice guy though he seems to be, or anyone of his gender

Bisexual seems like the cool category to be in, embracing everyone, but I’m stuck with not fancying men whatsoever, and being amazed that so many women do, thank fuck.

Anyway, I’m heterosexual, and so I’ve excluded half the human race from potential lust, and I can see that that’s a loss, of a kind. Similarly, I’d much rather be able to have vanilla sexual relationships, because otherwise I’d be excluding about 95% of humanity from potential lust.

But I have a feeling I’m drifting away from non-bdsm sex.

I don’t think I’ve had an erotic dream, certainly not a waking sexual fantasy, which isn’t bdsm-based, in years. Still,I guess that we all just have to be, and accept, whatever it happens that we are.

My great-grandfather was at Gallipoli. Gallipoli was an attempt to get a land pathway into Europe which British troops could follow, and attack the Germans closer to Germany than the stagnant lands created by trench warfare.

The road through Turkey would be opened by non-British troops, mainly New Zealanders and Australians, whose deaths in a futile and poorly planned operation wouldn’t be making headlines in England. There was a beach selected for this task, and naturally the British navy sailed straight past it and dumped the “colonial” troops into a beach where conditions would be intolerable if you lived, and where the Turks could sit up in the hills safely pouring lead onto the poor bastards on the beachhead.

Anyway, my great-grandfather was stuck on the killing beach. He did what you do under the circumstances. You try to go forward, you try to kill people wearing the other clothing style, you try to keep your head down and stay alive, and sometimes you do crazy brave things because the men you’re with are doing them too.

He came back from the meat-grinder alive but fucked. He couldn’t re-settle, he couldn’t be with his family, and he spent the rest of his life, except his last two years, trying to drink himself to death. Unluckily for him, the Mortimers have weird genes, and though he spent nearly eighty years consuming pretty much nothing but gin when he could afford it and sherry when times were worse, smoking when he could and sleeping rough, he lived until his late nineties.

In the last eighteen month of his life, when he was ninety-six, he became the live-in handyman at a block of apartments in Nelson, chopping wood (I told you we’re genetically weird), fixing fuses and hinges and water piping for the young couples living around him. He was proud of himself for the first time since 1915.

He died in the 1990s. Someone managed to locate his family and contacted my father, who wasn’t actually a relation except by marriage, and he went down and cleared up .

Anyway, my great-grandfather wouldn’t talk about Gallipoli, or Chunuk Bair. There wasn’t much to say. Except one thing. He said he was on the slopes with a donkey carrying water. The donkey got hit smack in the stomach by a cannon shell. It whipped its head around in time to see the middle of its body gone and its hind legs falling. Then the front of the donkey fell too, head facing my great-grandfather.

My great-grandfather used to say that the expression on the donkey’s face, when it realised it was fucked (grotesquely destroyed, if you prefer), was something he’d never forget as long as he lived.

I never met my great-grandfather. The only time I ever saw him was when I was nine. I was at a family wedding that he, pointedly, hadn’t been invited to. He turned up drunk, with a drunk friend, and got turned away. I missed that, but saw him later at a kid’s play area with a helter skelter. He and his friend decided to walk up the spiral of the slide, and come down the ladder.

It took them a long time but they made it, with assorted family members standing a distance away making disgusted comments. I knew nothing, understood nothing, but I did feel a kind of sympathy with him. Not “that poor man”. More like, “that’s odd but kind of cool”.

It was my mother who told me the only thing he’d ever said about his experience at Gallipoli. So I don’t know how he told that story: was it a parable about the way the New Zealand and Australian men were treated when the British decided to throw their lives onto a choppingboard? I don’t know: but my guess is that, yeah, it was that, but above all, he thought it was funny.

The people in my country have the blackest sense of humour I’ve encountered anywhere in the world. Throw in having lived through Gallipoli, and I’d say my great-grandfather would have had get a sense of humour so dark it had infinite gravity.

Anyway, I’ve never given a fuck about ANZAC Day. Nor, I understand, did he.

When I see it being used by politicians to defend more stupid military deployments, for the sake of someone else’s empire, I get really, deeply disgusted and angry. And it’s nearly impossible to make me angry.

So, I think the poor sods in the army, navy or air force who get sent where their country tells them to go deserve sympathy, and most importantly they deserve real help while they’re alive.

But fuck ANZAC Day. It was bullshit in the first place, and it’s now been securely seized by right-wing, race-baiting arseholes. Fuck them, fuck the politicians, fuck the snivelling scumlicking bullies in the Murdoch press, fuck all that bullshit. Fuck, as I said, ANZAC Day.

I remember the mess it made of my great-grandfather, sometimes, in bugle-free private, and I remember that poor bloody donkey.

That flogger had to be somewhere. That dom had looked under the end of the bed. But when he came back up to bed level, he saw his girl had changed positions. And he looked at the sweet, beautiful lines of her body.

And he wasn’t looking for his whip anymore. Which meant he was about to find it.

Life teaches submissives in fierce, fiery sensations. But doms don’t have doms, generally, so it teaches us in parables.

The most miserable experience of my life was because of bdsm. I was twenty-two, and I was very deeply in love with a woman I admired, respected, who was beautiful, who shared my political passions, whose virginity I’d taken. She’d been eighteen, and she hadn’t told me. I’d been nineteen, and I didn’t know enough to realise.

Later, when she told me, I was flattered that I’d been her choice, and sorry I hadn’t made more fuss. She should have had more cunnilingus, and afterwards a cake with a candle. Anyway, it was done.

I don’t really have any photos that illustrate this post. But here’s a pic I took yesterday, of a Prague manhole cover, depicting some sort of strife.

But there was a problem. My deepest and most satisfying sexual thoughts, and all of my fantasies, involved bdsm, and me being a dom. I don’t think the word existed at the time.

But in my sexual dreams I commanded, fastened, spanked and flogged. I guided, I rewarded and punished, and I took.

That was what I wanted, from a willing partner having fun.

It always had been what I wanted. I’d known it since I was four, long before I was sexually focussed, let alone sexually active.

But she thought that that sort of sex wasn’t just not for her; it was evil.

She’d read Andrea Dworkin and Robin Morgan on bdsm, and so she “knew” that. There could be no such thing as ethical, or even consensual, bdsm.

I’d mentioned it once, and on seeing her reaction, I gave up. I thought it was a pity. I loved her so much I wanted to be with her forever. and that meant I’d have to bury my bdsm. Lose it. Forget about it. Cut it off me.

Of course, sexual desires and needs don’t go away. Sometimes it’d be too much, and when she was absent I’d have my fantasies and masturbate. The miserable thing happened because we were staying with her parents, and moments alone just didn’t happen.

Eventually, the desires got too much, and I took a book I liked (“The Coming of Age of Françoise Cocteau”, which I’d expected to be more stylish, though the flagellation scenes were hot) to a local park, overlooking the sea.

It was twilight cold, and no one seemed to be there, and no one was likely to come to the park at that hour. I found a place among the trees, partly sheltered by a rock, and masturbated. But I felt desolate. I was in love with a girl who loved me, and I was still utterly isolated. Part of me was disgusting to her. All of me, just then, would be disgusting to anyone who saw me.

So I was in tears, streaming down my face, before I came, and after. Body fluids everywhere.

That’s it. That’s the experience. I cleaned myself up, binned the tissues, waited a while for the onshore breeze to remove the smell from my body, and trudged home. Despising myself.

But here’s the thing. She left me the next year, because in the feminist circles she was moving in it was wrong to have a boyfriend at all: sleeping with the enemy, and withholding wimminlovingenergy from other women, that’s what loving me was. Eventually it got too much and she moved in with women from the sisterhood. I was collateral damage.

It was not the happiest time of my life.

Sitting at a cafe in Prague today, keeping an eye on the square. Because life is ok.

But humans, thank fuck, are fickle, and after a mourning period I noticed that a man who’d been with one woman for four years, despite a roving eye, was a subject of sexual interest from other women. I had opportunities, and I started taking them. The second significant girlfriend I had wanted me to spank her. We explored further, and I found that I loved spanking her, and I loved what happened when we went further, too.

I moved to another city when I finished my degree, and found that my very next girlfriend wanted to be spanked and commanded too. So I’d met and bedded two women in a row who were submissive, when I hadn’t even included that in my selection criteria. I realised that my life wasn’t going to be as miserable as I’d expected. Instead life set about being fun and bringing me joy. I learned that a male dom is not short of women who want male doms, so long as those doms behave themselves like gentle men.

Because life is random, and for other reasons too obvious to explain, here’s a picture of a dog-washing shop, two days ago, in Geneva.

Anyway, that’s my message to baby-doms. The term “baby-doms” isn’t meant to be dismissive. It’s derived from “baby-dykes”, who are among the most charming people on the planet, even if they don’t want to have sex with me.

Babyhood is a time of infinite potential. Baby-doms are people whose experience of bdsm is in its infancy, who are just starting out, and who have, perhaps, only recently become aware of their desires. Don’t despair. Life can go hard on “perverts”, and so can your own mind.

Keep your code of ethics, try to do the right thing, and persevere.

There’s nothing wrong with being a dom, so long as you obey the same rules about consent and avoiding force or manipulation that people expect in other kinds of sex. A lot of people are submissive, and they are looking for you, or someone like you.

Life gave me some miserable times because I’m a dom, but it also gave me the most wonderful experiences and times I’ve ever had. Those outweigh the bad times by a factor of, I’m not sure, but at least a hundred to one. I’d never give up being a dom, now, even if the thing were possible.

So, be hopeful and of good cheer. Life offers paths to doms, to fit their sexual “kink” into a good, ethical life, with lots and lots of incredibly hot sex and love.

His cock still deep in my mouth, Sir kissed Lucy. She leaned against him, breasts pressed against his chest, and so of course it became a long, lovers’ kiss. Was I jealous of Lucy? I don’t think so, or not exactly. I liked that we both belonged to Sir now. And I liked that, below that fact, Lucy also belonged to me.

And I liked that they wanted each other, and they were kissing. Even though I had Sir’s cock just then, I think I was just jealous that she was getting so much attention.

Sir must have felt something, because he pulled out, cock still pointing hard in the air. He said, “Maddie. Feet apart, bend over. Fingertips touching the floor.”

“Yes, Sir.” And I obeyed quickly, showing him I was a good girl too.

Sir still had had arms round Lucy and his hands on her pink little bottom, but he looked at me and smiled. “Can you touch your palms to the floor, Maddie?”

“Oh, yes, Sir.” And I demonstrated. God, I was a supple girl then.

Lucy looked at me, and his hand cracked hard against her bottom. “Eyes to me, Lucy.” She didn’t answer, just made a happy noise and wriggled her body in even closer. “That’s good, Maddie. I liked what that does to your bottom. But while you’re waiting, you can just touch your fingertips to the floor. Oh, and eyes to the floor girl. Looking at your hands.”

“Sir.”

So I stayed in place, bent sharply at the waist, head down and bottom presented, too afraid to look up. There were flustered sounds from Lucy, then the sound of Sir’s chair scraping on the floor.

Lucy was giggling, then a hard smack on her bottom made her gasp. Then another, and another. She made a sort of moaning noise, now her spanking was proceeding in earnest. Her moans got louder as the spanks got louder.

It was harder, I think, than he’d ever spanked me.

And it went on. I counted twelve strokes, then twenty, then two dozen. Then three dozen. Lucy probably hadn’t thought to count, but her moans had turned to little cries of pain. He was hurting her.

At the fiftieth smack there was a pause. Lucy probably thought it was over, but I guessed differently. I was right. The next smacks were slow and hard, and each got a high-pitched yell from poor Lucy. She was snuffling now, trying not to bawl like a baby. Finally, at sixty, Sir stopped.

“That’s a good girl, Lucy. Brave girl. Obedient girl.” He’d be stroking her bottom, caressing, making her feel better. Lucy still snuffled, and moaned when his hands touched an especially sensitive place. Then there was silence. He’d be stroking her pussy, and Lucy would be trying to be ladylike in front of her Mistress. That attempt lasted perhaps a minute, and then she whispered, “Oh, Sir…”

A few seconds later, as I guess her whole consciousness narrowed down to the fire in her bottom and the sweet sensations in her pussy, she started murmuring, “ohsirohsirohsirohsirohsir…”

Then there was another loud smack, and Lucy made a surprised sound.

“Up you get, girl. Fetch me the cane, and stand close beside me while I cane your Mistress.”

Then I heard him thank her, and the cane swish through the air, hissing, as he tested it. He was letting me know that this was going to be harder than this morning’s caning.

“Now, Lucy, I want you to take my cock in your hand. Can you– Ah! Good girl.” There was another pause.

I dared not move, but I strained to hear them. Then there was a sigh from Lucy. I assumed he’d kissed her again.

“I want you to keep on stroking me, just gently, while I cane Maddie here. Maddie wants to be caned hard, doesn’t she?”

He left a silence. Then I thought, Oh: that wasn’t a rhetorical question. “Yes, Sir. I do hope it’s hard. I think I want that.”

“You certainly need it, little one. Now, Lucy, a thing you’ll learn is that the more excited a man is, or a man like me, the harder he’s going to cane. So I want you to pleasure me with your hand, while I deliver Maddie’s caning.”

“Like this, Sir?”

For once Sir sounded strained. “Ah, yes. Uh! Pretty much exactly like that. Good girl, Lucy. Have your fingers mainly running along the underside, and of course the head. Ah. Good girl. You keep that up, till I tell you to stop.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Right, Maddie. We begin.”

And I felt the cane touch my bottom, lining up across the lower slopes, where it was bound to hurt most.

I’d told Stephanie she was coming to my room still naked, but on her hands and knees. She looked at me. If she did as I said it’d be humiliating. On the other hand, it’d be hot. Worse, or better, it’d be hot because it was humiliating.

She chose a form of resistance that was calculated to be futile. “‘Walk to heel’? I’m not your dog.”

Eventually I said, “No. You’re my girl. Tonight, anyway. And you’re going to do as you’re told.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, Stephanie. Because you want to. Because you and I both really want you to. And… because if you don’t I’ll take my belt to this gorgeous arse.”

“Oh!” She looked shocked for a second, then amused by me.

“And you’d say that’s not a threat it’s a promise?”

“Neither. It’s just information.”

I stepped back, because I needed space to move one hand from her bottom, to stroke her cunt.

Stephanie, sweetly, wetly stroked, moved her feet apart a little, and put her arms round me while I pleasured her.

I was holding almost all of her weight now.

But it was important to have her wanting more. I took my fingers from her cunt, and held them to her mouth for her to lick and suck clean.

“Good girl, Stephanie,” I said. “Now: hands and knees. Drop.”

And Stephanie looked at my eyes. Sh swallowed. She’d committed herself. She lowered herself to her knees, kissing the bulge in my jeans her way down, and assumed her new position.

I’m in a town called Roscrea. I chose it because it’s as close as I could find any accommodation to tiny Dunkerrin, where my ancestors, Jeremiah and Mary Mortimer, died and are buried.

I know: Jeremiah Mortimer sounds like an old codger in The Simpsons. I can’t help that.

His son, who came to the South Pacific and sired a hell of a lot of people, was called Darby. By the way, the name “Darby” is a fairly common Irish first name. Sean Connery plays a Darby in his first film, Darby and the Little People. You should see it because there’s a bit where Connery has to sing: comedy gold! Anyway, the name Darby is a sort of slang version of Jeremiah, like Jack is a slang version of John.

House of Mortimer (somewhere here, about six feet under this ground)

Anyway, Jeremiah and Mary couldn’t have afforded a headstone, so they’d have had a wooden cross at best. That’s long gone. I’d hoped to buy a mess of poitin, and pour some on the grave, one way or the other. But that was not to be.

But here’s a picture of the last resting place of the Mortimers who didn’t go to the South Pacific and become my ancestors.

There’s not much in Dunkerrin, though the churchyard is pretty. But I’ve been looking about the town of Roscrea, which unexpectedly turns out to have structures that were built in the tenth century, to keep Vikings away, and in the twelfth century when the Normans, having conquered England, decided to invade and occupy Ireland too. So: history! It’s all over the place here.

For example, this is literally the view from the window of my hotel room. It’s a Norman castle, twelfth century, That house in the middle, clashing with everything around it, was built in the eighteenth century by a family who got rich occupying Ireland when Oliver Cromwell went over and did his bit.

Cromwell’s bit for Ireland consisted of burning, murdering, raping, smashing and looting. Ah well, it’s a lovely house, truth to tell, but on style grounds, if nothing else, it really, really doesn’t belong in the middle of the ruins of a Norman castle.

Anyway, I’ve got peace of mind at the moment, and there’s a historical novel I finished a few years ago. Then I realised it has too many characters, and its climactic scene is in the middle, and it should be at the end. It needs serious repair. But I got taken up by other, more immediate, projects, including two other novels and a non-fiction book, and I shelved the flawed historical novel. Now I’m taking it off the shelf, with a fresh mind.

It’ll be about 350 pages, and it doesn’t contain a single spanking or other bdsm scene whatsoever. I think there’ll only be two significant sex scenes of any kind, so I’m afraid my readers will have to settle for a good story, some historical scandal (accidentally discovered by me, when researching something completely different!) that will still create some uproar, some scenes of horror of the human, not supernatural, kind, and some laughs.

So if anyone needs me, I’ll be tapping my keyboard in the bar of The White House, Roscrea. I’ll be drinkin’ Guinness, and if you pop by I’ll be buyin’.

So I went to the cupboard in his office. I saw more than I’d expected or even imagined, when I opened it. He had three canes of varying sizes, including one comically short one that I expected was for use on girls who were over his knee. I imagined what that would be like, and then I felt that vision in my cunt. I hoped he’d do that to me.

There were strips of leather in varying thickness and widths, straps and hawses, and paddles, two leather and one thick wooden one with holes drilled in it. I thought I’d try to avoid the wooden one. Once he knew me, he’d know that was the only implement that would really punish me.

There were leather strips, with buckles, for securing a boy or girl who wouldn’t stay in place for punishment, and there were other things whose use I couldn’t even guess.

But Sir was a man to obey exactly and quickly, so I selected the longest and thickest cane and turned to hold it out to him, offering it out to him with my arms outstretched in front of me, and my palms open.

He looked at me, letting me know I had to do more, so I lowered myself as elegantly as I could, without dropping the cane, to one knee, then the other.

Kneeling naked in front of him, stripes from my caning this morning still warm across my arse, I didn’t think I could feel any more lowered, more submissive to him. I was wrong.

He stepped forward, so his feet were between my spread knees, unzipped quickly and took out his cock. He was hard. I opened my mouth quickly, and he thrust into me, not gently, as far as he could. I choked and fought back the urge to cough. It was easier when I made myself relax, his cock thrusting into me. I kept still, allowing him to fuck me. My drool ran down to my chin while he used me. If he’d touched my cunt with his shoe he’d find the leather gleaming with my juices. I could feel I was about to leak onto the upper slopes of my inner thighs.

“Yes, Sir.” She stepped forward. I was focussed on Sir, but I could see her cunt and thighs. She was standing beside Sir and me.

“Are you good at this, Lucy?” His cock in and out of my mouth, fucking me casually while talking to my girl.

“I don’t know, Sir. I’ve never–“

“Never? You’re a virgin? I mean, your mouth?”

“Yes, Sir. My everything. But I know I’d be good. For you.”

“You would be, little Lucy. I wouldn’t even have to cane you, I don’t think. And Maddie can help teach you. She’s good.”

Still working on his cock I made a little pleased throaty noise, so he knew I’d heard and liked that. I still had the cane in my hands, pressed lightly against his shins. “The cane, Maddie.” I reached up and he took it from me. He pressed his left hand firmly against the back of my head, so his cock was deep in my throat. Then he raised the cane over his shoulder and whipped it down my back, catching my right cheek. “If I want to hear from you, girl, I’ll ask you.”

I would have cried in pain, but his cock gagged me. A few seconds later, his cock still moving in my throat, he whipped the cane down my left buttock. I wanted to moan. But somehow that second stroke felt good. And the third, and then the fourth, one side then the other while he fucked my mouth, deep, unhurried. It balanced the hurt, and I knew it was right that I hurt.

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